


Saving Her - Chapter 6 - Grief

by Ariana (ariana_paris)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariana_paris/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar has acquired the power to transfer his powers to others. Claire seeks him out and asks him to transfer her power of regeneration to Noah Bennet who is dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saving Her - Chapter 6 - Grief

**Author's Note:**

> This is a chapter in a multi-authored fic. Installments are published as they are written, in no particular order. If you are interested in participating, please see [this post](http://community.livejournal.com/sylar_claire/407147.html) on [](http://community.livejournal.com/sylar_claire/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/sylar_claire/)**sylar_claire**.
> 
>  **Betas:** Many thanks to [](http://cameroncrazed.livejournal.com/profile)[cameroncrazed](http://cameroncrazed.livejournal.com/),[](http://bellonablack.livejournal.com/profile)[bellonablack](http://bellonablack.livejournal.com/) and[](http://illyriaz-shell.livejournal.com/profile)[illyriaz_shell](http://illyriaz-shell.livejournal.com/) for their comments and suggestions.
> 
>  **Chapter prompt: from**[](http://shoplifterette.livejournal.com/profile)[ **shoplifterette**](http://shoplifterette.livejournal.com/): Sylar is saving Claire from grief. The original prompt can be seen [here](http://community.livejournal.com/sylar_claire/404779.html?thread=2147371#t2147371), though I took some liberties with the outcome.

[Chapters One](http://wat-da-fic.livejournal.com/5044.html) \- [Chapter Two](http://ewinfic.livejournal.com/21914.html)  
   
  
 

Claire looked up at the old Parisian building. The 17th century block appeared to lean away from the narrow street, its grey rendering cracked by decades of neglect, telephone wires added a century ago hanging limply across the front. It was a sad little building in Le Marais, normally the most expensive, exclusive area of the city.

Sitting at a table on the tiny sidewalk opposite the building, sipping strong black coffee, Claire watched the door and bided her time. The Agency agent she had met here was certain that Sylar was at home; top floor, he had said, pointing at the small shuttered windows in the roof. There was a security code on the main door and all Claire needed was an opportunity to enter the building.

She had been waiting for forty minutes, pretending to read the _Le Monde_ newspaper, when a young woman with a baby in a stroller approached the building. Leaving her paper on the table, Claire crossed the road. She pretended to be coming home herself and took the opportunity to hold the door open after the woman had entered the code. Inside, as was often the case, there was a second set of doors protected by an intercom system and a lock. Fortunately, the woman was so grateful for Claire's help in navigating the entrance's awkward layout that she didn't notice that Claire had no keys.

Claire walked up the uneven stairs to the top of the building. There was only one apartment door there, with a handwritten label above the door bell.

"G. Grisant?" murmured Claire, recognising the French word for 'grey' -- _gris --_ in Sylar's assumed name. "No wonder they found you so easily."

As a precaution, she pressed her ear to the wooden door, but could only hear muffled voices. Claire hesitated before pressing the door bell. Considering that Sylar was killing again, he might not be as amenable as he had seemed the last time they had met. That was years ago; anything could have changed in the meantime. But Sylar had promised long ago not to hurt her, and so far, he had kept his promise. Claire had a tranquiliser gun to hand just in case. She pressed the buzzer.

It was a while before she heard footsteps behind the door, followed by a silent pause. Claire presumed that she was being observed through the small peephole. The door opened, its metal bolts clanging loudly in the small stairwell.

Claire's heart did a strange little flip when she saw Sylar. He was flushed and sweaty, stripped to the waist, and his jeans were partially unbuttoned. Sweat gleamed on his well-defined muscles and Claire was rendered momentarily speechless.

"Hey," said Sylar by way of greeting. He was slightly out of breath.

Claire swallowed hard. "You killed again," was all she could muster.

Sylar glanced over his shoulder although all Claire could see was a small entrance hall painted stark white and a couple of closed doors.

"Come back in ten minutes."

He shut the door in her face. Claire had often imagined what they both would say when she saw Sylar again after what had… happened last time. This was not at all how she had imagined it.

Claire could hear a woman's voice behind the door now. Sylar was speaking to her in French; although she couldn't make out the words with her basic knowledge of the language, Claire could hear the difference in the rhythm of his voice. Sylar had evidently decided that with all the time in the world, he should broaden his horizons and learn to speak a new language. When seized by the same urge, Claire had picked Spanish.

Claire presumed that Sylar wanted her gone so he could get rid of the woman he had been... well, it was too obvious what he had been doing. Claire shivered at the thought of what she had interrupted. However, she was reluctant to leave, in case Sylar decided to escape. Looking around, she noticed a cupboard door on the landing. This one was painted grey, not lacquered like Sylar's door, and it stood ajar. A small enamelled sign on it said "Electricité de France" and Claire assumed it had once housed the master fuse box for the building. Peering inside revealed a tiny modern box in the corner of a now mostly empty cupboard. Claire slid into the narrow gap and pulled the door until it was only open a crack.

The door to the apartment opened after a few minutes and Sylar accompanied the woman he had been with to the top of the stairs. He was still only wearing his jeans and his feet were bare, a marked contrast to his fully-clothed lover. As the woman turned towards Sylar, Claire was amazed to find that she wasn't young; in fact, she was probably closer to 50. But she was still undeniably beautiful, with the kind of even, timelessly aesthetic features that Claire always envied. Her dark blonde hair was pulled into a casual bun on the nape of her neck. The long tailored coat the woman was wearing hid the details of her body, but Claire noticed her long black nails and the sharp stiletto heels on her patent leather pumps.

" _On se voit samedi, Gabriel_?" she asked.

" _Peut-être. Je t'appellerai._ "

The woman pulled Sylar around so that he was standing a couple of steps below her and kissed him hard. Then she walked past him and left. Sylar looked in Claire's direction and flicked a finger, pulling the cupboard door open.

"If I'd known you liked to watch, I'd have invited you in earlier," he said with a smirk.

He indicated his open door, and Claire entered his apartment. "Who is that woman?" she asked, realising as she spoke that she sounded jealous.

"Latest mother figure, I guess," said Sylar, showing her into a small living room.

The ceiling was white and lined with heavy dark beams. The metal shutters were closed, but the two narrow windows were open, their old wooden frames jutting into the small room. There was a worn leather couch, a small dining table and some matching chairs, as well as a screen suspended on the wall, its control box lying on the floor in a puddle of wires.

"Nice place," said Claire for want of anything better to say. She sat on the couch.

Sylar ran one finger along the painted wooden moulding on the wall. "Yes. I've been here three years. I figured I'd been all over North America, I might as well try Europe. It's addictive, visiting monuments whose every brick carries the memory of millennia of history."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Claire shortly, not the least bit interested in Sylar's exploration of Europe.

"Paris is fascinating," continued Sylar as if she hadn't spoken; some things evidently never changed. "Did you know that most of the old buildings were built from stone quarried under the city itself? The whole underside of central Paris is a maze of tunnels: the catacombs. Some time in the 18th century, they realised that the cemeteries were all full, so they dug up all the old bones and placed them in a giant ossuary in the catacombs. They're still there; stacks of femurs and tibias, craniums neatly arranged on top of them. Every bone with its own story of pain and betrayal, love and lust. And ultimately, of death. I could spend an eternity down there, losing myself in all the lives that have come before."

"Still like the sound of your own voice, I see," said Claire.

Sylar just smiled. "You look good," he said, looking her over slowly, eyes lingering on her loose hair and the curve of her chest. "But then I guess you always will."

"Like you."

"Yes. I'll always look good too," said Sylar with amusement. Claire rolled her eyes. "Would you like a drink?"

Claire thought about all the coffee she had just drunk. "No, thanks."

"Well, I do. I'll be right back."

He went back into the corridor and through the door opposite. As he pulled the door closed behind him, Claire caught sight of a bed and some kind of plastic sheeting on the floor. She decided that she had even less desire now to know what Sylar had been doing with his lover. Trying very hard to dismiss the thoughts that came to mind, Claire flicked through a broadcasting guide she found on the coffee table. The small room was hot in the stifling summer evening and she wished she had asked Sylar for a glass of water.

When Sylar returned, he was holding a tall glass of milk and Claire was relieved to find that he had put on a navy blue shirt. At least she wasn't going to be obliged to conduct their conversation with the constant distraction of his chest hairs.

Sylar sat on the couch beside her, one knee up on the seat so he could face her while he drank his milk.

"So what brings you here?"

"You killed someone," she said. "You didn't seriously think that burning the body would be enough to cover the crime? They found the skull and it didn't take long before the Company heard about it."

Sylar shrugged. "I guess I'm a little rusty. But then I never really went in for hiding bodies."

"You really haven't changed, have you?" said Claire. She was so disappointed that she could hardly contain her anger. "All these years of controlling your hunger, and you just revert back to type in one instant. I thought you didn't have to kill anymore."

"I don't." Sylar lowered his eyes. "But I wanted his power and as soon as I shook his hand, I realised that he wasn't someone I wanted to empathise with."

"You didn't like him, so you killed him?" said Claire with disgust.

"Actually, you should be thanking me for removing a considerable threat to little Italian schoolboys." Sylar's expression turned dark. "Some people deserve to die, Claire. You know that."

Claire couldn't really argue with that. Over the years, Sylar had killed a number of people she didn't miss, like Arthur Petrelli or Eric Doyle. It had been a very long time since he had killed anyone she loved. Or even taken an ability by murdering.

"Why did you want his power?" she asked.

"I thought it might come in useful. He had the power to transfer powers," explained Sylar, before giving her a searching look. "But I'm guessing the Company knows about that."

"Yes, they do. How did you find out about him?"

"Easily. When the European Agency for Evolved Humans contacted him, Martinelli posted online to say he didn't know what his ability could be. I suggested it might be one that interacts with other abilities, so he met up with a guy who had the power of persuasion. Unfortunately, their experiments were conclusive. Martinelli transferred his base power to the other guy and the other guy was then able to transfer his power of persuasion back. When he posted his results online, I was intrigued by Martinelli's power; it wasn't until I actually met him that I realised he couldn't be left loose on the streets of Genoa." Sylar looked down at his hands in disgust. "I guess it's like riding a bicycle, you never forget how to saw open people's heads."

Claire was about to ask him why he hadn't simply reported the man to the local authorities, but aside from his explanation, the answer was too obvious. Sylar had wanted his power and, as usual, had helped himself to it. The fact that the man was a paedophile was just a convenient get-out clause.

"Why did the Company send you?" asked Sylar. "I thought you'd stopped working for them."

"They didn't. The Company has no jurisdiction here. The European Agency is responsible for monitoring you."

"Yeah, I let them interview me and they let me go." Sylar smiled. "I think to be honest that the agent they sent agreed that Martinelli was better off dead. Plus he rather enjoys being able to turn things into gold now. So if the Agency didn't contact the Company… what are you doing here?"

Claire swallowed hard and realised this was the moment when she would have to admit the reason for her visit.

"I… I need you to use your new power," she said in a small voice.

Sylar smirked. "Oh. I see. Murder is really, really bad, but using the proceeds is okay? Claire, you do disappoint me. Decades of waggling your finger at me, telling me what a naughty boy I've been, how you never want to see me again… and suddenly, I acquire an interesting power and you come crawling out of the woodwork. Doesn't that strike you as just a tiny bit hypocritical?"

Claire stood up and headed for the door. "I knew this was a mistake."

"Probably." Sylar slammed the door shut with a wave of his finger. "But you're here now, so you might as well tell me what you want me to do."

Claire faced the door for a moment, debating what to say. She had practiced her speech on the long flight to Paris, but now that Sylar was here with her, it sounded ridiculous.

"I want you to give my power to my father."

There was a long silence. Claire turned to look at Sylar; he was watching her with amusement. Once he had her full attention, he burst out laughing.

"You must be kidding. You want me to make Noah Bennet immortal?" He drank the last of his milk. "That is wrong on so many levels."

"You once promised that you would save me," said Claire, feeling tears welling in her eyes. "When Mom died, I… It was so sudden. I wasn't there, I couldn't do anything to help. I can't go through that again. Dad is dying. If you give him my power, he'll be all right."

Sylar didn't look moved. "Does Bennet know about this?"

"No, but obviously, he's suffering and he wants to get better." Claire choked back a sob. "I give my blood regularly, but it just isn't enough."

"No, it isn't," said Sylar slowly. "Transfusions only fix injuries; they don't cure diseases. The existing damage is repaired, but the regeneration taxes the recipient's metabolism so much that each transfusion leaves him tired and weak. The disease takes hold again immediately, because once the regeneration has repaired the damage, the body is left to its own defences. So you need another transfusion, and then another. After a while, the recipient's body is so weakened that it can't even handle the transfusion process and you just have to let the disease take its course for a few weeks... Sometimes you feel it might be best to let them die."

Sylar's voice was quiet, his eyes vacant, staring into some dark abyss in his own soul. Who had he tried so desperately to save?

"You understand," said Claire. "So you'll help me?"

"No." Sylar's dark eyes snapped back to the present and he shook his head. "Noah Bennet is an old man. He's had his life and it's time he died. It's the natural order of things. You need to accept that and let him go."

"I don't want him to die!" exclaimed Claire. "He doesn't have to. You can save him."

"Save the man who made me into a monster?" snapped Sylar. "Claire, you must be kidding."

"The only person who made you into a monster is yourself, Sylar. Every time we meet, you keep going on about me not letting go of my hatred, but what about you? Still harping on about something that happened nearly forty years ago. You've had plenty of opportunities to reform. You haven't been anywhere near my father for decades, and yet, here you are killing again."

"I already told you--"

"You want to play the bad guy, fine!" interrupted Claire. "Do this for me and you can do whatever you want to me. I'll sleep with you. Isn't that what you've wanted all these years?"

"Not quite," said Sylar, raising his eyebrows.

"You promised to save me, Sylar, and for once, I'm the one asking to be saved. Save me from the grief of losing my father."

Sylar took in a deep breath, visibly annoyed that she was bringing up his promise to her. "I guess if it really means that much to you… I'll come with you to the States and see what I can do. It's been a while. I guess I could stock up on some stuff; you have no idea what they charge for a bar of Hershey's chocolate here." He gave her a sinister smile. "We can discuss the terms and conditions when we get there."

Remembering his harsh-looking lover and the plastic sheet in the bedroom, Claire's resolve faltered. She wasn't particularly interested in sexual kinks, but had found plastic sheets useful when testing the limits of her own regenerative power. She wondered if Sylar and his lover were conducting experiments of their own, and whether Sylar would want Claire to participate in similar activities if she slept with him. But she told herself that it would be worth it if he kept her father alive.

"If you save him, I'll do whatever you want," she assured him.

* * * * *

Airplanes were not Claire's favourite mode of transport. The cabin was spacious enough to prevent the panic that sometimes seized her in smaller spaces, but the thought of sinking to the bottom of the ocean in a metal tomb still sent a tremor of fear through her. Glancing at the man sleeping beside her, she relaxed a little; if the plane did fall out of the sky, Sylar would be able to cut them out. It was strange to realise that she trusted him to save her. Maybe he had succeeded in his plan to go on her "mantel" with Peter after all.

Sylar had the window seat and was leaning against the cabin wall, snoring lightly in his sleep. Claire wondered if a farewell session with his French lover had tired him out. She noticed that the book he had been reading was slipping out of his hands and picked it up.

It was a worn copy of Nietzsche's _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_. Claire had never read any philosophical works, let alone anything that was, to her knowledge, vaguely associated with Nazism. But having nothing else but a bland in-flight magazine to read, she flicked through the book with curiosity. It looked dense and unreadable, with interminable sentences, and she was about to put it in the pocket opposite Sylar's chair when she noticed a piece of paper poking out of the back page.

Extracting the paper, Claire found it to be a photograph of Sylar with a little boy. The date in the corner of the photograph indicated that it was taken in November three years earlier. Sylar and the boy were in a park; Claire could see bare trees behind them and yellow-brown leaves on the ground. Sylar was wearing winter clothes and his hair was much longer, in a shaggy style that didn't suit him. His face looked fuller, either because of the hairstyle or maybe just because he hadn't been as fit as he was now.

The little boy was about five years old, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, and was sitting in a wheelchair. Both Sylar and the boy were wearing the kind of cheesy grins that people only put on when a camera lens is focused on them. It was odd to see Sylar in such a casual, ordinary pose, crouching beside the wheelchair, one arm resting up on the handle as if he had been pushing it before being instructed to crouch down and pose.

Claire was so engrossed in her observation of the photograph that she didn't notice Sylar was awake until he snatched the picture away from her. He put it back in the book and slid the book into the pocket in front of him.

Sylar turned away from her, pretending to go back to sleep, but Claire wasn't fooled.

"Who is he?"

"A boy I know," said Sylar tersely.

"Is that why you wanted that guy's power?"

"Yes."

Claire thought about asking what was wrong with the boy. But Sylar seemed very uncomfortable with the subject. It wasn't really any of her business anyway.

"He has a form of muscular dystrophy," said Sylar after a pause.

"I thought they could cure that nowadays?"

"Only the most common type: Duchenne's." Sylar hesitated, seeming to debate whether to tell her more or not. "Antoine's illness is due to a number of genetic mutations."

"So you've given him my power?"

Still looking away from her, Sylar shook his head. "I can't. I have to wait until he's fully grown. Regeneration is all very well when you're thirty... or even sixteen," he said, giving Claire an appraising look. "But I wouldn't wish on anyone to be eternally eight."

"He won't necessarily stop growing," said Claire. "My regenerative capabilities increased when I was sixteen, but I must have always had them. I was never sick as a child."

"You were born with the ability. Your body was programmed to reach maturity before kicking in with the full-blown 'fixing everything' regeneration that makes you immortal. But people who acquire the ability, like me, just stop where they are." Realising that Claire was looking at him dubiously, he added, "Trust me, Claire, I understand exactly how it works."

"So you have to wait until this boy has grown up?"

"Yes." Sylar paused, his expression sombre. "It's a dilemma. Men generally don't reach their full physical height until their early twenties, but we're not sure he'll live that long. As I said yesterday, transfusions don't work well when the disease comes from the body itself as opposed to, say, a virus. It probably doesn't help that my blood is tainted by all the changes I've made over the years; as it is, I have to spend a week consciously filtering out the rest of the crap I've accumulated, because sometimes, he gets that as well. Not full blown powers, just really weird side effects. First time we tried a transfusion, all the power went off in the room, and one of the monitors flew out the window."

Sylar smiled grimly as he continued. "Antoine was five at the time -- it was the day we took that picture -- and he thought it was hilarious. Then he passed out and it took an hour to revive him. We had to find another clinic after that, one that had some experience with evolved medicine. That's why we moved to Paris." He paused. "It's probably better for Antoine anyway; he couldn't stand the heat in Bordeaux in the summertime. The new doctor's been really helpful. We've worked out the best schedule to keep Antoine on his feet without stunting his growth, and for a couple of weeks, he's all right. Then his muscles start to disintegrate again, and we have to wait a month… When I heard what Martinelli could do, I figured at least there would be some light at the end of the tunnel. With your ability, his body will keep fixing itself indefinitely and it'll be as if he was healthy."

Sylar stopped talking. Claire stared at his profile against the cabin wall for a moment. She remembered the little boy who had died in her arms under the avalanche so many years ago, and imagined the helplessness that Sylar had to be feeling for little Antoine. She struggled to express what she felt about his story.

"Sylar, that's… that's _awful_." She frowned. "Do you think I could help? My blood must be purer than yours."

"Thanks for offering, but judging by what you said about your father, I'm guessing it would still be the same story. Besides, you'd have to give blood every six weeks for at least the next ten years. That's a big commitment for a boy you don't even know."

"Then why are you--" Claire decided not to ask the obvious question about Antoine's parentage. "So now I know why you're living in Paris," she said instead.

"Why, because people need a really good reason to live in Paris?" said Sylar with amusement. "Actually, I needed a really good reason to live in _Bordeaux_. Well, there was the wine, I guess. I like Paris. It's everything it's cracked up to be if you know where to look. Great restaurants, beautiful women, a _laissez-faire_ attitude to most things in life. I'm not saying that the French as a race aren't as petty-minded and boring as any other people on Earth, but certain circles in Paris attract the best of humanity's minds and bodies. I've certainly met some interesting people through the course I'm doing at the Sorbonne. Philosophy." He indicated the Nietzsche paperback.

Claire couldn't help smiling at the thought of Sylar studying philosophy. "I see. Maybe after learning about some real philosophers, you'll stop pontificating about your own half-baked views on the universe."

"Actually, I'm learning to pontificate about my own views in style," said Sylar, sounding a bit annoyed. "France is possibly the last country on Earth where you can make a living as a philosopher. I reckon I could write a book on my profound thoughts about being the living embodiment of Nietzsche's _'Übermensch'_ and live off the proceeds for a couple of decades."

Claire shook her head, amused by the idea of Sylar writing a book. Although she had to admit that she didn't see him very often, Claire was nonetheless struck by how much Sylar seemed to have changed. He had spent the first few years of their acquaintance doing little more than pursuing her. But now, he was living a full life that didn't involve her at all. She knew she should be glad, not... strangely envious.

"Are you really sure your dad will go along with this?" asked Sylar.

"Yes, of course he will," said Claire, trying to sound confident.

* * * * *

"I thought your father would be in a hospital," said Sylar as Claire unlocked the door to her family home in Costa Verde.

"No. They discharged him last week."

"So I'm really his last chance, then." Sylar grinned. "Sweet."

Claire had started regretting her plan from the moment she saw Sylar again in Paris. Her misgivings were amplified tenfold now that she saw him standing in the very living room where he had dissected her and later terrorised her family.

"I never thought I'd be here again," he said as if reading her thoughts. "I thought your family would have moved back East after all these years."

"No, Mom stayed on with Lyle, then Dad moved back here when he retired. He continued to live here after she died."

"So they got back together in the end?" asked Sylar, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah."

"Lucky bastard."

Hearing their voices, Noah Bennet's hospice nurse came out of the kitchen. She greeted Claire and gave Sylar a friendly smile, no doubt presuming that he was a friend of the family. Or even worse, presuming that he was Claire's boyfriend.

"Parminder, this is, um, Gabriel Grisant," said Claire, using the name she had seen on Sylar's fake European passport. "He's come to see Dad."

"Oh, Mr Bennet is asleep right now," said Parminder apologetically. "But he should be awake soon. I have to give him his afternoon pills at four."

Sylar shrugged. "That's all right, I can wait."

Claire informed Parminder that she would be staying for a few days and discussed the arrangements for Noah's care. In truth, however, she paid little attention to the discussion of IVs, painkillers, and colostomy bags, let alone attending physicians and funeral directors; none of that would be necessary once Sylar had transferred her power to Noah.

When Parminder had gone back to her tasks in the kitchen -- sterilising something; Claire didn't pay attention -- Claire turned to find that Sylar was sitting on her parents' couch, legs propped up on the coffee table as he flicked through a woman's magazine Parminder had left out.

"Feet off, Sylar," growled Claire as she sat on the couch opposite.

Sylar grudgingly obeyed. "It's been years since anyone called me Sylar, you know," he said as he put the magazine down. "That's not who I am anymore."

"I think our paedophile friend would disagree," said Claire lightly.

To her surprise, Sylar glared at her. "You have no idea. Clairsentience can be a bitch sometimes. I knew exactly what that monster did to-- to kids like… Don't joke about it."

Claire was taken aback. But maybe he was right; after so many decades of dying in bizarre ways, fighting enemies with weird powers, working with or against the Company, Claire sometimes felt that she was losing touch with reality. The reality where messing with children and murdering people were unnatural, horrible things. Not jokes.

"So will all this be yours if your father shuffles off the mortal coil?" asked Sylar more gently, looking around.

"No, it's rented from a housing association," said Claire. "I guess they would reclaim it if he died. But since that's not going to happen, I don't need to worry about it."

"Hmm. I wouldn't count on it."

"What do you mean?"

Sylar leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "Your dad might be a devious bastard, but he's not stupid. He's been offered powers before and he's always refused them. I don't think he's going to change his mind about that and accept yours."

"You don't know him," snapped Claire.

"Really?"

Sylar tapped on his knee thoughtfully but changed the subject. "Am I staying here? I could put my bag in my room."

"No. You're staying at a motel a mile from here," said Claire.

Sylar raised his eyebrows. He had mentioned not having a lot of money when they discussed travel arrangements, alleging that he was just a poor student living in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Given that he had the power to change objects into gold, Claire suspected that the money issue was just an excuse to make her life difficult. However, there was no point antagonising him.

"The Company will pay," she added. She still had access to some of her father's discretionary funds.

Sylar chuckled. "I always seem to end up staying at the Company's pleasure, don't I? I just hope this isn't an elaborate plan to run some experiments on me."

When Claire said nothing, Sylar sprang to his feet and wandered around, looking at the knickknacks and ornaments displayed in the room. Claire was about to tell Sylar not to touch anything when a bell went off in the kitchen. Her father was presumably awake and summoning Parminder.

Claire intercepted the nurse as she prepared to head upstairs, explaining that she wanted to see her father alone. There was no reason to delay. Sylar followed Claire up the stairs, though he stayed at the door, just out of Noah's sight, when they reached the master bedroom.

Claire visited her father at least twice a month, but she was shocked by his appearance every time. The man who had once been tall and strong, the pillar that supported her little life, was now a frail invalid. His hair was white, his face emaciated behind his thick glasses, his skin dotted with liver spots, his body weak and thin under pyjamas which had once fitted him snugly but now looked as though they belonged to someone twice his size.

"Claire," he croaked weakly, trying in vain to sit up on his own before resorting to the bed control in his hand. "I wasn't expecting you for another week."

"I decided to come early. I…"

For one moment, Claire considered not mentioning Sylar; but another look at her sick, dying father, convinced her that this was the only course of action. She couldn't imagine life without him.

"Dad, I've brought someone who can help," she said.

Claire had meant to explain the situation to Noah before letting Sylar come in, but Sylar had obviously been listening at the door and chose this moment to make a dramatic entrance. He came to stand at the foot of Noah's bed, looking down at him with a sinister smile. The contrast could not have been greater between Noah, old and wizened, and Sylar, still young and handsome and dressed entirely in black like an angel of death.

"What the hell is he doing here?" hissed Noah.

"Dad, Sylar can give you my power," said Claire. "You'll be healthy again."

"Get out of my house!" exclaimed Noah, finding enough strength to lean forward and point at Sylar.

"But Dad, he can save you!"

"I don't want anything from him." Noah glared at Claire. "Whatever you offered him, Claire, it isn't worth it."

"Well, this is going well." Sylar's smile broadened at this exchange. "I think I'll wait outside."

Casting one last amused look at Claire and her father, Sylar sauntered out of the room.

"Claire," said Noah as soon as Sylar was gone, "what were you thinking?"

Even though she was upset, Claire forced herself to speak calmly. "He can transfer my power to you, Dad. You wouldn't be sick anymore. You wouldn't die."

Noah leaned back on his bed, tilting the head down a little with the remote. "I don't want to live forever, Claire."

"Oh, Dad, you're only saying that because you're so ill," admonished Claire. "If you were feeling well there would be no reason not to continue."

"There are plenty of other reasons." Noah sighed, rubbing his forehead with a claw-like hand. "My time has come, Claire. The world I grew up in, that I helped shape, is gone now. So many things have changed. Making a phone call baffles me, I don't understand half the things that young people say and I have no idea how they can listen to that hideous noise they call music."

Claire smiled. "You're just being a cranky old man."

"Yes, because I _am_ a cranky old man. Being healthy isn't going to change that. Claire, if I become immortal, I will be 82 forever." He smiled at her. "I will still have fonder memories of the 1980s than any decade in between. I will still be furious at all the things that have changed since my youth. You may be able to adapt, Claire, because you'll be forever 16, with a brain made for learning. You'll be young and beautiful forever; you'll always find new friends and lovers as you go through the years. But I've had my time. I had my beautiful wife, I nurtured two wonderful children to adulthood, I've met my grandchildren and watched them grow up too… and it's their world now. They deserve to make their way through it without some ancient old man criticising everything they do."

Despite the light tone of her father's last comment, Claire could feel tears stinging her eyes as she realised he had made his decision.

"But Dad, I don't want to lose you," she blurted out.

"Losing people is part of life," said Noah. "You're unique because you discovered long ago that you would never die of old age, but the rest of us have always known that our time would come. Being aware of our mortality is what makes us human, Claire. It gives us a purpose; encourages us to do all we can before our time is up."

Noah coughed slightly; Claire helped him sip some water from a cup.

"And you're all right with that," she asked in disbelief, "with dying… forever?"

"Yes," he answered. "I don't believe in paradise and angels welcoming me with open arms. But I don't believe I will burn in hell for all the wicked things I did either. The people I murdered." He glanced at the door. "The monsters I might have created. I'll just stop being. There's nothing scary about that."

Noah reached up to touch Claire's face. His thin, wrinkled fingers were soft like velvet on her skin.

"My own regret is the grief I know it will cause you and Lyle." Noah's eyes grew brighter behind the glasses. "Claire, we've never really spoken about this. But the truth is… I miss your mom. I know no one would ever replace her and to be honest, I wouldn't want them to. I really can't face an eternity without her. "

Unable to contain her sorrow any longer, Claire burst into tears. She leaned on Noah's frail chest and wept like the little girl she had one been, when all she had to do was sob her sorrows in her Daddy's strong arms for all to be well again.

* * * * *

Sylar was lying on Claire's bed reading his book when she went to look for him. He was still wearing his boots and gave her a defiant look when she entered. Claire glanced around the bedroom she had occupied on and off for the last thirty years, wondering what he had touched and what secrets it might have revealed.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she exclaimed.

"I thought you'd invited me?" said Sylar innocently, though he sat up and put his book in his bag. "You remember: Paris… 'Save my father, save me'… "

Claire was in no mood to play word games with him. "Get out!"

"Hey, calm down. It's not like I was jerking off or anything."

"Ugh." Claire winced. "Just go away."

"Where to? I don't know where that motel is," he pointed out, "and I don't have the money to pay for it. You can't just kick me out. You're the one who dragged me halfway around the world on some half-assed mission to make your father immortal. Don't take it out on me if he didn't agree with your crap plan to keep on being Daddy's girl forever."

Claire gritted her teeth and was tempted to throw him out anyway. But over the years, she had grudgingly come to consider him as a person rather than the monster he had once been, and she felt that she at least owed him the courtesy of providing accommodation.

"I'll drive you there," said Claire shortly, striding out of her bedroom before he could make any more disgusting remarks.

The drive only took a couple of minutes, as did the registration. Claire had, of course, never stayed in the motel herself, but Peter had been there a few times when he came for a long visit. Instantly recognising where Sylar's room was when the desk clerk gave them the key, Claire took him there herself. She wasn't entirely sure why; perhaps she was reluctant to return home and face her ailing father. Fighting with Sylar was less painful.

"Wasn't Peter a hospice nurse once?" asked Sylar abruptly as he walked into the room, his hand lingering on the door knob. "I'm surprised you didn't get him to look after your dad."

"He has other things to do." Claire didn't want another conversation comparing Peter and Sylar. "And yes, he stayed in this room too."

"I can feel it. That could have made things extra interesting if your father had wanted the power after all. You know, if you'd made good on your offer. Bit kinky doing it in the room your uncle stayed in." Sylar looked her over appreciatively. "We never did discuss what you were offering, by the way."

"Nothing involving plastic sheets," said Claire with disgust. Sylar smirked and she added, "It's off the cards now anyway, as you evidently know." She wondered if Sylar had listened to her conversation with Noah from the hallway.

"Well, it sounded like a nice offer, but I never seriously thought anything would come of it," said Sylar with a shrug, sitting on the bed. "Besides, I think Anne-Sophie would cut my balls off and make me eat them if I slept with someone else."

"That's a good deterrent. I'll use that threat with my next boyfriend," said Claire lightly.

Sylar frowned; always a scary sight. "Did a guy cheat on you?"

"No." Claire knew he could tell when she was lying, but it wasn't any of his business.

She put her hands in her pockets and wondered if she should sit down on the available chair. But that might suggest that she wanted to stay with him or was trying to avoid going home. Claire's heart sank at the thought of her father still frail and close to death; she had been so certain that he would accept the power from Sylar and live with her forever.

"Could you give my father the power without him knowing?"

Sylar's expression turned sombre. "No."

"Maybe I can talk to him again," said Claire hopefully. "If I could convince him--"

"He told you he was through," interrupted Sylar. "Just let him die and move on with your life."

"Let him die?" repeated Claire in disbelief. "That's rich coming from you. Considering all the effort you're putting into saving that little boy."

"That's different! Old people die, Claire, it's natural. But there's nothing natural about watching your… a child die before he's twenty because the muscles in his lungs aren't strong enough and he's drowning in his own phlegm. If there was some way I could save Antoine's life without making him immortal, I would, but sometimes life just doesn't go your way and you have to take the breaks you get. You can't possibly tell me it's the same as this stupid mission to keep your Daddy around just because you can't bear to be a grown woman and stand on your own two feet."

"Dad might be old and sick now, but there's nothing wrong with his mind," said Claire. "If I can convince him to accept my power, he will be better and he'll see that he has plenty to live for."

"You weren't listening to a word the man said, were you?" exclaimed Sylar, more angry than Claire felt he had any right to be under the circumstances. "He said he's had enough. He's lived a full life and he doesn't want to go on without the woman he loved. Even if he could ever get over that, this isn't his time and he doesn't want to live in it. There's more to being human than continuing to exist, Claire. His generation is gone. From here on, eternity will be filled with strangers who have no understanding of the time that made him."

"What, he wants to die just because nobody remembers the New Romantics or Ronald Regan?"

Sylar shook his head in irritation and started to unlace his boots. "You shouldn't underestimate the importance of the times we live in when it comes to shaping our lives." He paused, one boot off, and rubbed his foot absentmindedly. "I'd never really appreciated that until I met Anne-Sophie. It's sometimes nice to be with someone who remembers the Millennium, for example. It meant nothing to me at the time; I stayed at home and went to bed early. Anne-Sophie watched the lights on the Eiffel tower fail spectacularly a few hours before midnight. But it's just the fact that we both remember it at all. All the hype, the crap about the Millennium bug… I guess she's the last lover I'll share that with."

"I remember the Millennium," said Claire. "So is that was you do with this Anne-Sophie, reminisce? I guess that's why you picked someone so old."

Claire realised that she was placing herself in the same category as Sylar's potential lovers, and was also sounding uncharacteristically bitchy about the woman he was sleeping with.

"She's actually only four years older than you, Claire. She's fifty-eight. Which makes her nine years my junior. But yeah, it's weird seeing the looks people give us when we're out. It's like they can't see how beautiful she is just because they can tell she isn't thirty anymore."

"I can imagine." Claire watched Sylar remove his second boot, standing it neatly beside the first. "She does look good for her age," she added, trying to make up for her earlier comment.

"Yes," said Sylar shortly. He leaned back on the bed, striking a nonchalant pose that emphasised the length of his limbs and the shape of his shoulders beneath his black shirt. "Talking about ages, you seriously should think about getting a new passport. I could see the look that passport control guy gave you, even from where I was standing in the 'Aliens' line. I got mine done years ago." He rubbed his unshaven cheek. "I don't think I could convince anyone that I was 67 now, and I guess I'll be getting younger again when I get my next passport in a couple of years. But it's sometimes strange to look at the passport and see that I was supposedly born in 2006. Even though I guess that's true in a way."

He gave Claire a significant look and she nodded vaguely. Her memory of the events of her homecoming in Odessa had faded over the years. She wondered what Sylar had been like before he met Chandra Suresh and developed an insatiable desire to kill.

"Yeah. I should get a new passport," agreed Claire, though she knew that losing her real birth date would be the first step to an eternity of lies. She glanced at the door, realising that this conversation had gone on too long already. "I guess I should get back. Lyle is coming over this evening with his family."

She turned towards the door, but stopped when she heard Sylar say her name.

"Claire, let your dad go. He's accepted his fate and so should you." Sylar flicked the door open with one finger. "If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's to recognise the shadow of death when I see it. Go home, Claire, and stay with him tonight. Enjoy the time you have left."

* * * * *

Claire shivered in the night air, wishing she had worn a jacket over her summer dress. It was one a.m., being here made no sense, but she just needed… something. Anything to distract her from the sleeplessness that pills couldn't fix.

She banged on the motel door a few times, her hand flat against the old wood, but it was a while before Sylar appeared at the door. He was wearing only a pair of striped pyjama bottoms, but exuded none of the magnetism she had felt two days earlier in Paris. He stared at Claire, bleary-eyed and confused.

"Dad's dead," she said in a strangled voice.

Sylar stood aside silently to let her in. He had turned on one of the bedside lamps, but the bulb hadn't yet reached its full luminosity and the generic motel room was filled with shadows in the gloomy orange light.

"I suppose that makes you happy," said Claire accusingly. "Knowing that after all these years, you'll finally get to dance on his grave!"

"I don't dance." Sylar's voice was sober; he sat on the bed and absentmindedly scratched his hairy stomach. "I'll admit I've often imagined him dead. But dying of old age, at home, surrounded by his family… That isn't the death that Noah Bennet deserved. But then, when do I ever get what I want?" He hesitated, before looking up at Claire and adding, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Claire stared at Sylar, amazed by what he had just said. She had felt numb ever since she sat with Lyle in Noah's room, listening to the rattling of their father's lungs gradually subside as his body shut down. With Lyle's support, Claire had gone through the motions of thanking Parminder for taking care of the body and making arrangements for its removal the next morning. Lyle had gone home with his family at Claire's insistence. And she had come here, as if in a dream, seeking out the only other man who had remained a constant in her life.

But hearing Sylar of all people give her his condolences for her father's death seemed to tear at Claire's heart in a way that none of the night's events had quite managed to do. Before she knew what she was doing, Claire had burst into tears and slapped Sylar across the face.

"You bastard, you were supposed to save him! You were supposed to save _me_!"

She would have hit him again, but Sylar grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. Claire offered no resistance, sitting beside him on the bed and burying her face in his shoulder. Through her violent sobs, she hardly noticed how Sylar managed to lay them both on the bed, with him leaning against the headboard and Claire lying half on top of him. All she cared about were his long arms around her, the rapid beating of his heart, the softness of his bare skin against her cheek.

When her sobs had subsided, Claire became more aware of Sylar's presence beneath her. He was stroking her hair, his fingers gently combing the long strands, almost playing with it like a child discovering a new texture. Claire noticed that his heartbeat seemed unusually rapid and his breathing more laboured.

Claire lifted herself off his chest; Sylar sighed, an irritated noise, though he relaxed his hold on her as she leaned up on one arm. The shift in position made Claire's hair tumble onto Sylar's chest. She watched as he licked his lips and struggled to hide his reaction. Claire caught Sylar's eye and smiled.

He pulled her up telekinetically until her face was level with his. Claire bridged the gap between them to kiss his mouth. She knew that she was only acting on the impulse because she was upset, that she would regret it the next time Sylar said or did something disgusting. The sensation of her dress and bra unfastening and slipping down her back made her hesitate, but Sylar was deepening the kiss and it felt good to hold him again. She had kissed him before after all, so another time wouldn't hurt, and his tongue touching hers gave her a thrill that dampened the pain she felt.

Sylar flipped them over so that he was lying on top of her. He pulled at her loosened clothes, baring her chest, and immediately leaned down to kiss her breasts. Claire moaned, digging her fingers in his short dark hair, revelling in the sensation of his stubble caressing the underside of her breasts. He trailed kisses down her stomach and pulled her dress off to reveal her cotton panties.

"Oh, no, no," murmured Claire, brought back to her senses by the reality of what he was doing.

"No?" he repeated, looking up at her with his chin resting on her pubic bone. Claire wondered when he had cultivated that particular puppy dog look, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. God, she wanted him to continue.

"No," said Claire firmly. She sat up, though she was aware it made her breasts and hair move in a way that seemed to mesmerise Sylar. "I'm not doing this with you."

Sylar kissed the inside of her thigh and nuzzled her panties. "You want to, though."

"Not with you." Claire lifted her leg over his head so he was no longer between her thighs and shifted back against the headboard. "I mean who uses a plastic sheet when they're having sex?"

Sylar laughed. Claire felt the blood drain from her face. "You thought-- You have a dirty mind, Claire Bennet." He crawled up the bed, the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippling as he supported his weight on his hands and knees. "You think I'm into kinky sex because I used to remove people's brains?" He leaned down, whispering in her ear. "Maybe you're right. I have been a very naughty boy after all."

He kissed her mouth and despite the image that his comment conjured up, Claire gave in and wrapped her arms around his neck. His hairy chest brushed against her breasts and she moaned into the kiss. Claire reflected that she should really find herself a nice boyfriend, because she had to be desperate to want this from Sylar.

Sylar's fingers started to lift the elastic at the top of her panties and Claire broke the kiss, moving to sit on the edge of the bed with her back to him. Her dress was in a heap on the floor. Claire tried to pull it closer with her foot, but Sylar waved it further away as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, one hand cupping a breast and the other snaking down between her legs.

"Claire, you can't make me stop now," he murmured, his voice just a little whiny as he trailed kisses down her neck. She could feel his chest brushing against her back. "I'm desperate."

"I'm not actually sixteen, Sylar. I'm not going to fall for that one," she said breathlessly. "Count to ten and imagine… I don't know, being back on Level 5 or something."

"With Claire Bennet naked in my bed?" He kissed her hair. "You can't imagine how much I've wanted this. I know how much you want it too."

"I thought your girlfriend would object?" said Claire trying to break the mood but still unable to pull away. "Or are you really interested in testing whether your balls will grow back after she chops them off?"

"Claire, that's disgusting!" Sylar shuddered against her neck. "But my private parts and I will take our chances if it means I finally get to be with you. Come back to Paris with me, Claire. I'm sure Anne-Sophie will understand if I dump her for someone I've wanted for nearly forty years."

It was a sign of how confused Claire was after the events of the day that she actually considered this offer for more than one second.

"No," she said finally. "I don't think I'd fit in with your life. I think you have enough on your plate dealing with your son."

"He isn't…" started Sylar, but then he let go of her and Claire felt him shift away on the bed behind her. "Yeah, I guess that's the logical conclusion. I wasn't exactly subtle."

Claire turned to look at him. "Why didn't you want me to know?"

"I don't want the Company to use him against me." Sylar lowered his eyes. "I shouldn't have told you about him. He's none of your business."

Claire stood up and put her dress on; she didn't bother with the bra. She was about to say that he was right and she was going home when Sylar suddenly spoke again.

"It was all a big surprise. Solange can… Well, she can do this." Sylar made a pen on the motel desk fly into his hand and transformed it into a flower. He tossed it on the bed. "Last power I acquired before I met Martinelli. She made my European passport and we… Well, you know I'm a sucker for anyone who's nice to me. Anyway, when I saw her again about six months later, I got a shock. It was kind of soapy, but then I guess my life has always been weird like that." He glanced at Claire, frowning thoughtfully. "Do you menstruate?"

"What?" exclaimed Claire. "You can't ask me that!"

"I'll take that as a yes. Just don't want to go on about the wonders of parenthood in case you can't have children… Tough break being an immortal woman, I guess," he said with a grin. "Anyway, I didn't think I could have kids either, after everything I'd done to myself. Of course, I guess that's why he is the way he is."

"Isn't muscular dystrophy one of those things that can just happen spontaneously?" asked Claire, who didn't know much about the topic. "Like abilities?"

"Well, chances are still good that he got it from me," said Sylar with a sigh. "I guess you really do reap what you sow. My DNA is kind of messed up and he's definitely inherited that. Poor kid looks like me more each day. He's lucky he's growing up in France and won't be called Bert in school." Claire laughed and Sylar smiled at her. "See, even Americans don't get that anymore… You can sit down, you know, since you're obviously staying."

"I need to go back. I left Parminder on her own with…" Claire remembered her father's body still lying in his room and after a moment's hesitation, she sat on the bed again. "I can't imagine you being a father."

"It's taken me a few years to wrap my head around it too." Sylar smiled almost bashfully. "I guess you're going to think this is creepy, but you know I didn't really have a father when I was a kid. My real dad sold me and murdered my mom, and the adoptive one left before I was ten. But I remembered being Nathan, how he was with his sons, and every time I've touched you, I could feel… Your father was a bastard and he ruined my life. But he did a good job with you and your brother. Especially your brother."

Claire was puzzled. "Not 'especially' me?"

"You're 54 and you've never been in a serious relationship," said Sylar simply. "But I get that he and I are both to blame for that. The thing is, when I'm with Antoine, I have to draw on everything I know and use my ability to understand it and make it work. To avoid making the same mistakes that made me the monster I became. You have no idea how scary it is to become a parent, to have that responsibility. Knowing how an angry word with Solange or too many lies revealed at the wrong time could damage Antoine forever. But at the same time, it's the greatest feeling in the world, knowing that every time I'm with him, it means something to him. Something nobody else has ever felt about me." He rubbed his forehead. "Maybe I'm being selfish. Trying to make him into something he's not just because I want that feeling to stay forever."

Claire wasn't sure why, but she reached out and held his hand. "No, like you said, it's natural to want your child to be healthy, even if it means making him immortal." She felt the warmth of Sylar's large hand in hers and stroked it gently with her thumb. She thought about everything he had said about her father the previous day. "Do you ever regret taking my ability?"

"Yes." Sylar lifted her hand to kiss it. "But at least I know you'll always be there too. Come back to Paris with me, Claire, please."

"I can't," she said, shaking her head. "You're right, I do want you. But I don't love you, Sylar."

"I know. I guess I have a few more decades to go before we get there."

Claire let go of his hand and headed for the door. She looked back at Sylar lying half naked on the bed. "Thanks. For coming here, for giving me… I guess a different perspective on things. Let me know how things go with Antoine when you get there."

Sylar said goodbye and Claire headed out into the night, her heart still heavy with the grief of losing her father, but filled with a newfound confidence that life without Noah Bennet would not be as unbearable as she had feared. It was time she lived her life and stood on her own two feet.

  



End file.
